The Missing Angel by Erle Cox (lightest ebook reader TXT) 📕
Two incidents occurred about this time that made him resolve on emancipation. In both of these he was an unwilling eavesdropper.
One night, while returning home from a meeting, he entered an empty railway compartment. At the next station, two men, well known to him, took the adjoining compartment. When he recognised their voices, he was prevented from makin
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serious responsibilities.
He knew when he succeeded to the control of Craddock, Burns and Despard,
that his father’s death had made him a wealthy man. But when the figures
relating to the estate were known, confreres of the deceased merchant
opened their eyes with astonishment, and the State Treasurer of the day
licked his lips over the death duties.
Thanks to his previous attitude towards his staff, the succession of
Tydvil Jones to the throne of C. B. & D. was accomplished without
friction or unrest. Despite its great prosperity, the thirty years of
conservative autocracy of the late ruler lay heavily on the warehouse.
Without undue haste, and carefully feeling his way, the new ruler
instituted reforms that sent a sigh of relief from basement to roof.
But, from the day he assumed the reins, Tydvil began to live a double
life—but not in the usually accepted sense of the term. One was the
domestic life in which he was the subject of an autocrat. The other, his
real life, was as ruler of an establishment capitalised at
three-quarters of a million, and controlling the destinies of some four
hundred fellow beings.
From his elevated position his horizon was enlarged. He came into direct
contact with his peers in business, who received him with some
circumspection, having heard stories of his peculiar views. It was not
long before they recognised that he was a man not to be despised in the
game of buying and selling by which they all made a more or less honest
living.
Outside their common interest, however, they were at a loss what to make
of him, and he could not understand them. But after relinquishing the
first very natural idea that he was pulling their legs, they summed him
up as a most amazing prig.
There was some justification for their verdict. He had been brought up
to believe that a theatre was a vestibule to Hades, and shared with
racecourses and hotels the distinction of wearing the hall-marks of
depravity. If you hammer a doctrine, however fantastic, into a human
being from childhood, it will take an immense amount of eradicating.
But, in these early days of his responsibilities, Tydvil did a lot of
quiet thinking and observing. It did not take him long to arrive at the
conclusion that it was he and not his business associates who were
abnormal. Then the revolutionary truth gradually shaped itself in his
mind, that all his life he had allowed others to do his thinking, and he
awoke to the knowledge that all his ideas apart from his business, were
second hand.
At home he allowed no sign of his changing ideas to be noticed. He
entered into his social activities as an observer rather than a
participator. His admiration for his associates faded when he noticed
how they fawned on Amy. He also awoke to the fact that it was the cheque
book of Tydvil Jones rather than Tydvil Jones himself that commanded
the respect given to him. He obtained a good deal of cynical amusement
from watching how eagerly Amy lapped up the flattery of her friends.
It was about this time that Tydvil began to study his wife. But it was a
study of her habits and customs and not a study of her comfort. Amy was
good looking; there was no doubt about that. But there were lines about
her mouth that were seldom seen by anyone but her husband. They showed
up immediately he questioned any act or opinion of hers. When her
friends complimented him on the unfailing sweetness of “dear Amy,” Jones
agreed cheerfully and dutifully, but the thought of those lines was
always in the background.
Few but he recognised the diamond hardness of the sweet nature of Amy.
He had occasionally met other women who took the good things of life
thankfully and graciously. They were women who laughed naturally and who
did not want to reform society.
Once, experimentally, he suggested a modification of her Spartan hair
dressing and more expensive frocks. After Amy’s first shock of surprise,
her discourse on frivolous dressing lasted for 45 minutes. Who had
hinted she was unbecomingly clothed? Had she ever shown a tendency to
extravagance? Nothing but her knowledge of his impeccable life saved him
from a suspicion of having sideslipped from grace. Indeed, her
insistence on returning to the subject of the reasons for his suggestion
awoke in Jones the thought that she would find the pain of a misdemeanour
eased by the joy of reforming him, if necessary.
However, as he listened to her homily, he tried, without much success,
to reconcile her ideas of economy in dress with a twenty-roomed house,
three motor cars and eight maids.
However, Tydvil’s study of Amy led him to the discovery that though he
had been married to her for six years, he knew very little of his wife.
It was a little disconcerting at first to realise that she was no saint,
and that in pursuit of her objectives her methods were, to put it
mildly, peculiar. Recollections of passages between Amy and his mother,
unnoticed at the time, strengthened this conviction.
Then the discovery of a letter from his mother to his father opened his
eyes still wider. It narrated the episode of Amy’s telephone tactics
before referred to, and wound up with a summary of Amy’s character as it
appeared to the writer: “A more selfish, deceitful and hard-hearted
woman never existed. I feel that her piety is the grossest hypocrisy,
and that faith and charity are as far beyond her as my poor son is
beyond hope in her hands.”
Allowing for his mother’s habit of emphasis, Jones was forced to
conclude that there was something in the unflattering sketch of Amy.
Then he remembered his father’s self-effacement, and he saw a light. As
he ripped the letter viciously to pieces, for the first time in his
life, at the age of thirty-two years, Tydvil Jones swore. “No more! No
more!” he said aloud, bringing his clenched fist down on the table
before him, “I’m damned if I’ll stand it any longer!” The trouble was,
that Tydvil learned he had been robbed of his youth and the joy of
living it. That the robbery was committed with pious intent, was no
salve to his feelings. Affection may have misled his mother, but Amy had
been an accessory, not for love, but ambition. It was not sweet to
realise that he was subject for amused pity among the men he met in
business. The worst of it was he felt his case was beyond remedy.
Two incidents occurred about this time that made him resolve on
emancipation. In both of these he was an unwilling eavesdropper.
One night, while returning home from a meeting, he entered an empty
railway compartment. At the next station, two men, well known to him,
took the adjoining compartment. When he recognised their voices, he was
prevented from making his presence known by their first words, evidently
the continuation of a discussion. “Tydvil Jones—heavens, what a
name!—is a hopeless wowser. And I can’t stand a wowser.”
The rest of the conversation came in illuminating patches. “I don’t
believe he ever…” What it was, the angry listener could not
catch, but the shout of mirth that accompanied the expression of
unbelief, made Tydvil’s blood boil. “McRae or Daglish should take him in
hand and complete his education…”
“He would be an awfully decent fellow if someone would de-moralise him.”
Fortunately, in the midst of ribald suggestions for the improvement of
Tydvil Jones, the train drew up at a platform, and the subject of their
speculations, stooping low, fled.
The second incident was far more pleasant, and gave Tydvil even more
food for reflection.
One evening he was working back in his office some time after the staff
had left. Through a mind concentrated on his work, he became conscious
of voices near him, but for some time their purport did not sink in.
Then suddenly, without volition, he found himself alert and listening to
the words, “Well, anyhow, Tyddie is a dear in spite of his innocence.”
The voice was that of his senior typist. In a moment he realised that to
make his presence known at that juncture would be exceedingly
embarrassing both to himself and the speaker. With a grim smile, he felt
that, of the two, he would suffer the more acutely. He hoped the
conversation would lose its very personal note.
But the next words convinced him that the hope was vain. “I’ll bet,”
came a second voice, and he recognised the accents of that impertinent
little Miss Marsden, “that no one has ever told Tyddie how good looking
he is. I just love the way his hair waves, and those brown eyes of his.
Did you ever notice what a kissable mouth he has?”
The listening man felt perspiration on his forehead. Then came the voice
of the senior typist. “Why don’t you tell him that, Jess?”
There was a ripple of happy laughter, and Jess replied: “Poor Tyddie! If
I told him that I would be tried for manslaughter. Tyddie would perish
from spontaneous combustion brought on by his own blushes.”
Little Miss Jessica Marsden never knew how near she was to bringing
about that catastrophe. “It’s a jolly shame to think he’s tied up to
Amy,” from the senior typist. “My sister, Jean, was at school with her,
and she says that Amy wasn’t fit for human consumption.” Jones started,
and drew a deep breath. This was getting home with a vengeance.
“She is a beast,” commented Jess simply and sincerely.
The senior typist took up the tale. “It gives me the pip to see her come
sailing along with her condescending—‘Is Mr. Jones in his office, my
dear?’”
The words were such a perfect imitation of his wife’s voice, that it
took Jones all his time to keep still. “Pity she can’t get someone to
tell her how to dress herself.”
Jessica echoed the wish, and went on, “I always call them the beauty and
the beast. It’s a reversal of roles, but it’s accurate.”
The voices died away down the empty warehouse. When he was sure they had
departed, the sole partner of Craddock, Burns and Despard drew a long
breath of relief. The next thing he did was rather unusual for him. He
rose and walked across the room to the mirror that hung over the fixed
basin behind the screen in the corner. Jones surveyed his reflection
long and earnestly. Whether Miss Marsden’s judgments were right, he was
too modest to decide. But he did think that thirty-three years of sober
and upright living had left him looking curiously youthful. The
discovery was not unpleasing.
On the following Friday evening when the senior typist and that impudent
little Miss Marsden received their pay envelopes, they were amazed to
find a wholly unexpected and totally unaccountable increase of ten
shillings a week in their salaries.
Had they known that the portent announced the awakening of Tydvil Jones,
they would have been still more bewildered.
So now we see why Tydvil Jones was ripe for rebellion against life in
general, and his wife in particular. He felt he had had a raw deal. He
did not quite know what to do about it, but he was determined to do
something, and in the humour he was in, he did not care much what he
did.
The overdue explosion occurred about a fortnight after the episode of
the two typists. He entered his breakfast room, as usual, the first
arrival. It was Amy’s practice to
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